


Biggles and the Witch Doctor

by wateroverstone



Category: Biggles Series - W. E. Johns
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 21:11:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6923488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wateroverstone/pseuds/wateroverstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The real reason why Biggles left Bolivia after visiting Wilks, but otherwise practically plotless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Biggles and the Witch Doctor

Biggles and Algy had grown familiar with the streets of La Paz whilst staying with Wilks: the cobblestoned main street on which the Hotel Guibert stood, the thick walled adobe buildings, the slippery, steep streets where an unwary step resulted in the feet flying forward and a sudden, embarrassing, sit-down on the posterior. They had explored the markets, buying a few small, light souvenirs, and examined the goods on offer in the Mercado de las Brujas, the Witches Market, with fascinated horror. Biggles bought a spell for prosperity, wrapped up in a brightly coloured box, and tried to persuade Algy that a dried armadillo shell wouldn’t make a good receptacle for cigarettes.

‘The yatiri, the local witch doctors, wait outside the churches,’ Wilks informed them when he heard they had visited the Mercado de las Brujas, ‘a belt and braces approach to religion for the local Indians. First the Catholic rituals, then the pagan ones, to make sure all bases are covered. You can recognise ‘em by their black hats and coca pouches. For the Lord’s sake, don’t offend one of ‘em when you’re out and about. They have a lot of influence and offer everything from healing to revenge. ’

Biggles and Algy promised not to offend the local witchdoctors, and the talk turned to their plans to visit a nearby tin mine. They had met a recently appointed assistant manager for a small mining concern at the hotel, on his way to his new home, and had recklessly promised to go out and see him. Biggles, having made a reconnaissance, had decided it was too risky to go by air, so they were going by mule, starting the following morning; a journey they expected to take two days.

‘I wouldn’t have promised to visit the lad if I’d realised I couldn’t land the plane nearby,’ Biggles grumbled. ‘I’m nothing for riding on a mule. Still, I’ve given my word so I have to go.’

 

It was hot as they toiled up the zigzag road from the town and into the mountains. Algy complained about the unaccustomed, Spanish saddle on his mule and the pace set by the arriero. Biggles mocked him:  
‘Your backside’s getting flabby. This will work the fat off.’  
‘You’re bruising the back of that poor mule with your bony bottom every step it takes,’ retorted Algy ‘the poor thing would love to trade you in for me, and get a bit of cushioning.’  
There’s cushioning and cushioning,’ Biggles retorted. ‘You’ve enough cushioning to refurbish a couple of sofas and have enough left to stuff a feather bed.’

They bickered contentedly as they travelled along the mule trail. The terrain was even rougher than they had expected, mile after mile of rock ridges and ravines, sometimes covered by a scrubby shrub, sometimes too high for even that to survive and merely hot and bare.

Their arriero stopped on the summit of every high ridge and built a small trilithon, to join the hundreds of others already there, like mini Stonehenges, multiplied madly. Biggles attempted to ask him why.

‘It’s no good,’ he said, returning to Algy, ‘my Spanish isn’t up to it. I think he’s building little houses for the local demons, so they won’t become infuriated with him and throw us off the precipices.’

‘Let’s hope he’s better at propitiating demons than loading a mule,’ grumbled Algy, as they waited for their arriero to once more rebalance the load on their pack mule.

‘It’s the sort of country you can imagine demons inhabiting,’ Biggles remarked, looking around him with a shudder. ‘I’ve seen some rough country in my time, but this is as bad as it gets. Just look at that drop. I don’t want to add my bones to that pile,’ he added, looking at the remains of some unlucky llamas far below.

 

 

The inn where they were to stop the night was miserable; a mud hut containing raised mud platforms on which to sleep and eat. Biggles and Algy made camp and strolled around the village, but not for long. Although they had become accustomed to the altitude in La Paz, they were higher still, now, and the exertion left them breathless. They returned to their hut to find a woman, a yatiri by her hat and pouch, waiting by the door, accompanied by an Indian girl, a very prosperous girl judging by the number of voluminous brightly-coloured petticoats she wore. Biggles raised his hat politely and attempted to pass them.

The yatiri spoke to them using an Indian dialect. Biggles made gestures to indicate that he didn’t understand. She spoke more loudly and waved her hand at the girl. Biggles shook his head.  
‘Get the arriero,’ he told Algy. ‘See if he can translate what she wants into Spanish.’

The arriero came, listened respectfully to the yatiri then turned to tell Biggles what she had said. Biggles was incredulous. Algy smothered his laughter.  
‘No,’ Biggles was firm. ‘Tell her that, although it may be the girl’s destiny to be with an Englishman, it is not her destiny to be with to me. Tell her that... oh, hang it Algy, what’s Spanish for portents? Tell her that reading the future is a tricky business and omens are often misleading...’

Between them they managed to get their meaning across. The arriero looked nervous, and remonstrated with them, but Biggles held firm. The girl had to leave with the yatiri.  
There was more discussion that Biggles didn’t understand, then the yatiri left with the girl, who throughout had maintained an impassive countenance.  
‘She says that this is not yet finished,’ the arriero told Biggles nervously.  
‘It is from my point of view,’ Biggles responded.

They ate a thin stew of half cooked potatoes seasoned with a fiery pepper for their evening meal.

‘This is worse than being hungry,’ groaned Algy. ‘How can you swallow it? It’s like liquid larva, and as for these raw lumps.’ He prodded one experimentally, but, fearing to break the prongs of his fork, desisted.

‘It could be worse,’ argued Biggles. ‘We could taste what’s in it. You know that it’s too high for water to boil at a proper temperature, so cooking becomes problematic. Heaven knows, you’ve been complaining about the coffee.’

They were up early, their beds not being conducive to late sleeping, and the altitude was giving them a tendency to wakefulness. Algy was aware of Biggles sitting on the edge of his bed and smoking more than once during the cold night.

They packed their night things swiftly and exited the hut only to see the yatiri once more waiting with the girl, again standing motionless and expressionless in her garishly bright petticoats.

Mindful of Wilks’ warnings about treating yatiri with respect, Biggles once more politely refused the girl through the reluctant translation service of the arriero. Biggles was unhappy with the situation. The local Indians did not have a good reputation, although much of the trouble was now in the past, and he did not want to inflame tensions and cause ill feeling, possibly resulting in loss of properties and even life, by insulting one of their spiritual leaders. But even to keep the peace, he was not prepared to assume responsibility for a local girl.

Once more, through the arriero, the yatiri informed Biggles that this was not the end of the matter. Biggles bowed his head politely, wished her a good day, and ordered their immediate departure, before any local hotheads could take a hand in the matter.

‘The thing that worries me the most,’ he confided in Algy, ‘is the thought of them setting up some sort of ambush further ahead on the trail, or for our return. I wonder if anyone at the mine will be able to advise us? I’ve not heard about this happening before.’

Biggles kept a close eye on his surroundings as they travelled, but they reached the mine with all of his fears having proved groundless.

 

 

The mine manager and his assistant were delighted to see Biggles and Algy. Visitors were rare and a very welcome break to the monotony of everyday life. They showed Biggles and Algy around the mine and informed them in enthusiastic and minute detail of the problems faced in extracting the tin, from the technical problems caused by the high altitude to the shortage of experienced and qualified personnel. This interested Biggles rather less than the information that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had once worked as payroll guards for a nearby mine, and had visited the very hotel they were currently staying in, but he nodded politely and asked some questions on the points which did engage his interest.

Over their evening meal, which was properly cooked: ‘I’ve got a pressure cooking device,’ Walters, the mine manager, explained to an incredulous and appreciative Algy, the conversation turned to native customs and beliefs. 

Biggles mentioned the encounter he had had with the yatiri on the way, but neither Walters, nor Davies, the fresh faced young mining engineer they had met at the hotel, could cast any light on what she intended, but one thing reminded them of another, and soon they were recounting unusual things they had heard happened.

Strange yarn begat strange yarn, and it was late when they sought their beds. Walters had lived in the country for many years, and had a huge fund of stories starting ‘A queer thing that I heard from a fellow once...’ He, no doubt inspired by Biggles’s tale of his encounter with the yatiri, told many tales he had heard of them and their ability to perform magic. 

‘Much of it is doubtless knowledge of the properties of herbs and plants,’ he assured Biggles, ‘but they can do some strange things. You don’t want to cross one. A queer thing that I heard from a fellow once, was of a love potion that one made for one of his peons. Apparently this peon had loved for a girl for years, but she was of a higher class than him and would hardly give him the time of day. He saved and saved, which is a hard thing to do in this part of the world, and when he had enough, he went to a yatiri and bought a bag of herbs that would make the girl love him forever. He followed the yatiri’s instructions, walked up to the girl , sprinkled a pinch of the herbs over her, and straight away she got up and left her husband’s house and went to his. She stayed there, apparently happy, for several years, had a couple of children by him, then one day was seen throwing a small object into the river. She walked back to the house, collected her things and moved out that day. She’d found the spell and broken it. He was heartbroken, but she never went back.’

The house was very small. Algy and Biggles were sharing Davies’ room, and there was very little space once they had all sorted out their blankets. Biggles and Algy were glad that they were only staying two nights. The temperature dropped sharply after dark and as they’d discovered the previous night, their blankets weren’t quite sufficient.

Readying themselves for departure on their second morning, Biggles and Algy were looking forward to returning to the relative comforts of the Hotel Guibert. They would have to break their journey at the same local inn they had stayed at on their way out to the mine, which worried Biggles somewhat, but Walters had assured them that there was unlikely to be major trouble. ‘Although I do wish I knew what she was up to,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It could become awkward if she starts making a habit of trying to force men to take local girls.’

 

Sure enough, the yatiri arrived with the girl soon after they did. The girl stood quietly, her face and demeanour giving no clue to her thoughts.  
‘You should not try to escape your destiny,’ the yatiri informed Biggles through their arreiro, and departed. 

Biggles didn’t get much sleep that night. ‘I can’t make out what her game is,’ he fretted, as once more they packed to resume their journey.  
‘Who knows? She can’t do anything to us,’ Algy stated optimistically. ‘I wish I’d thought to ask her for something for my bruises,’ Algy rubbed his backside ruefully before re-mounting his mule.

 

They had travelled a few miles down the track, and Biggles was beginning to relax when the yatiri and the girl reappeared. Algy saw them first, a little way ahead, stood a short distance apart. They were at the bottom of one of the many ridges and folds in the land, right by the mule trail. Cracks and crevices peppered the cliffs behind them. As they approached more closely, Algy saw that the yatiri held an object in her hand – he couldn’t make out what it was, - and she moved her hand back ready to throw it when they passed her.

‘Hi,’ Algy yelled in warning as he flung himself from his mule in an attempt to stop her, but all he managed to do was get between the girl and Biggles, so he, Biggles, still on his mule, and the yatiri formed a triangle. The yatiri was unable to arrest her throwing motion, and the object flung from her hand burst open on the stony ground between Biggles and Algy. 

Algy saw, through streaming eyes, that it had been a pouch of herbs, the contents of which had covered himself and Biggles completely. He’d breathed some of the fine dust in and his chest felt as if it was on fire. Wheezing, he saw through his teary eyes, that Biggles was in the same case as himself. The yatiri was consternated. The girl had her hands pressed to her mouth in shock. The arreiro had made off down the track a short distance and was frantically unloading packages from their pack mule. Algy turned back to see that the yatiri and girl had vanished; the arreiro shouted something in Spanish that Algy didn’t catch and hastened back in the direction they had come from, with the mules, and they were suddenly alone.

The herbal dust settled and Algy was able to breathe a little more freely.

‘What the hell was that all about?’ he asked Biggles, perplexed.

Biggles shrugged and rubbed his chest as if it hurt.

‘The arreiro was shouting something about love in order to live, which makes no sense whatsoever. I wonder if I misheard? And tomorrow. He definitely said tomorrow. I think he meant that he’d return tomorrow, but I’m not sure. Let’s see what he’s left us and shelter in the shade of one of those caves for a few minutes. I’d like to get my breath back before deciding what to do.’

 

Slowly, for their eyes were sore and itchy, and it was hard to breathe properly when they exerted themselves, they picked up the packages the arreiro had thrown from the mule and staggered to the nearest cave. A quick check showed they had a little food, plenty of water, and some blankets. They wound the reins of Biggles’s mule around a branch of a nearby shrub, Algy’s, of course, having disappeared with the arreiro, and sat down to assess the situation.

‘We’ve got a mule and water, so even if the arreiro doesn’t come back we should be able to reach La Paz,’ Biggles decided, speaking rather hoarsely. ‘What went wrong? I saw the yatiri’s face and she looked horrified. Did she drop the pouch by accident?’

Algy shook his head. ‘She had her arm back to throw it. She was just waiting for us to be in the right position. I jumped off my mule to try to stop her, but I wasn’t in time. If I hadn’t moved, it would have gone all over you and the girl.’

‘So whatever it was, it was meant for the girl and me, not me and you. But why then are they so bothered that it hit me and you and not her and me?’ Biggles shrugged and rubbed his hands up and down his arms. ‘That arreiro was terrified of getting a taste of the powder. I didn’t know he could move so fast. I’ve not seen any previous indication that he knew any speeds other than dead slow and slower, but he was down that road, away from the powder, like greased lightning.’ 

Algy was finding it increasingly easy to breathe, but his breath was coming more shallowly than usual. Biggles’s was also coming a little fast. He stirred as if he was sitting uncomfortably. Algy rubbed his hands up and down his arms, unconsciously mimicking Biggles’s actions. The hairs were standing on end and the action of rubbing made him quiver inside. He also shifted, trying to adjust himself to a more comfortable position. It was a ridiculous time and place to become aroused, but that was definitely what was happening, and happening strongly. Suddenly, he knew what had happened.

‘She threw a love potion at us,’ Algy stated with utter certainty. ‘It was meant for you and the girl but it hit you and me. That’s why they were so upset.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Biggles said testily. ‘There’s no such thing as a love potion.’

‘There is,’ Algy insisted. ‘Don’t you remember what Walters was saying last night? That story he told? He said the yatiri were good with herbs.’

‘Rubbish,’ Biggles told him. Algy looked at him. There was a lock of hair falling over Biggles’s forehead and he had a sudden desire to push it back from his face and to kiss him, to wrap himself around that slim body and lose himself in passion. He sighed, and fell silent, waiting for Biggles to acknowledge the truth of the situation.

It took two cigarettes, during which Algy had to exert more and more self control, then

‘Even if it is a love potion, we don’t have to act on it,’ Biggles announced. ‘We can ignore it. Mind over matter and all that.’ He refused to countenance the little voice in his head that was suggesting it would be pleasant to act on it, that Algy would be appreciative of his sore muscles being rubbed, that he was craving physical contact with him. Another little voice suggested that it was a very, very strong concoction if it was making him want Algy in such a manner.

 

‘Or we could enjoy it?’ Algy suggested. ‘Seems a shame not to take advantage of it. It’s more effective than oysters. In fact, it’s more effective than anything I’ve ever heard of. It’s making you look like the cutest thing that I’ve ever set eyes on, which ought to be a lot more disconcerting than it is.’

Biggles shook his head and looked as stubborn as the mule outside.

Algy stepped to the entrance to the cave and looked out. There was no one and nothing in sight, not even a stray llama. They’d seen very little traffic on the road in their outward journey. He didn’t expect it to be any busier now.

‘Well, we can forget going to La Paz feeling like this.’ Algy said, swinging his arms to try and distract himself from his still increasing arousal, which was disorientating him and making him dizzy. ‘Did the arriero say it would wear off by tomorrow? What did he say, exactly?’

Biggles frowned and repeated the words he thought the arriero had used. He was flushed and the pupils of his eyes had dilated to cover the iris entirely. 

Algy agreed with Biggles’s translation, and they remained in silence for another few minutes, trying not to look at each other as that intensified the desire. The symptoms continued to strengthen regardless. Algy pulled his shirt off, as it was becoming unbearable to have anything touching his skin, then swung round as if galvanised. 

‘What if we’ve got the words right, but the meaning wrong,’ he said urgently. ‘What if ‘love to live’ is not some trite inspirational saying from a local religion, but an actual instruction? What if, to survive this, we have to make love to each other?’

Biggles watched a trickle of sweat run down Algy’s chest, followed it down the treasure trail of fine hairs down to where Algy tented his trousers, licked his lips, and rubbished the suggestion. 

Algy leaned against the rock at the mouth of the cave. His heart was beating rapidly now, he was panting for breath and he was hurting with lust.

‘This,’ he said, trying to remain calm, ‘is not normal. It’s not usual to feel this way no matter how much you want somebody. If it’s fuck or die,’ he deliberately used the cruder translation, ‘then I’m all for fucking.’

‘I don’t like being forced into things,’ Biggles told him.

‘Can’t you view it as a happy accident?’ Algy asked, dizzy with his need.

Biggles grinned, against his will. Algy picked up the blanket, spread it on the ground in front of Biggles, kicked off his shoes and socks, and stood on it. He moved his hands to his waistband. ‘Well?’ he asked, ‘How about a bit of gratitude? You’d be trying to get through 500 petticoats right now if I hadn’t got in the way.’

There was a roaring noise in his head and little dots swimming across his vision before Biggles gave in. He crawled onto the blanket and pulled Algy down. He kissed him and ran his hands over him, trying to feel every inch of him whilst simultaneously removing his and Algy’s remaining clothes. The simple feel of skin on skin was enough to trigger a gutwrenching orgasm in both of them. 

It took some little time for them to regain some measure of control. ‘Well, that didn’t take too long,’ Biggles said, sitting up and finding his cigarettes. ‘Do you think we’ve time to get to La Paz if we set off now?’  
‘No.’ Algy remained calm as he reached for a cigarette of his own. ‘I don’t think it’s safe to go yet.’

‘What?’ Biggles looked at him amazed.

‘I’m afraid I’m already thinking about seconds,’ Algy apologised. 

Biggles was forced to admit, that by the time he had finished his cigarette, he was more than ready for a return bout, too.

There was a greater measure of control the second time. It was about pleasure rather than urgent release. The herbs intensified every touch to an exquisite sensation, every breath sent shudders of slow pleasure through their bodies. Biggles, as usual, once committed to a course of action, carried it out with his usual thoroughness. It was physical pleasure such as they had never experienced before, had never dreamed of experiencing, and it was going dark by the time they’d leisurely worked their way through a third helping.

‘This,’ Algy said sleepily, spooning against Biggles’s back, ‘is probably the best sex I will ever have. Do you think we can buy some more of this stuff? It’d be a shame to never know this again. I wonder how it would feel with a girl?’

They were cold in the night, having no night attire and insufficient blankets, which was the probable reason for them waking and deciding on a fourth time. The herbs had partially worn off they agreed afterwards, and then, waking cold and stiff at dawn, it seemed only right to finish things off with an appropriate bang, which used up the last of the herbal influence.

They fell shivering into their clothes as the light grew stronger.  
‘If these bite marks show when I’ve got my shirt on I’ll kill you,’ Algy told Biggles, having spotted one on his shoulder as he dressed and remembered what Biggles had done in the night. It had felt indescribably good at the time, and he remembered begging for it to be repeated again and again. Biggles smirked and turned to find his socks. 

Algy smirked himself, catching sight of the fingernail welts running down Biggles’s back. Biggles had been very appreciative of the sensations that that had provoked. ‘You’d better not let anyone see your back before you come up with a decent cover story,’ he warned.

‘I’m not going to be able to walk for a week,’ Biggles complained. ‘And I’ll have to blame the mule.’

‘I shall tell everyone that your mule was named Algy,’ promised Algy.

 

The arriya rejoined them shortly after they had set off on the trail back to La Paz. They reloaded the pack mule and swung themselves onto their riding mules. He cast them several puzzled glances but was disinclined to speak, which relieved them greatly, and by that evening they were restored to the Hotel Guibert.

 

The next day Biggles looked at his companion doubtfully as he stirred his coffee reflectively on the patio of the Hotel Guibert in La Paz. 

“That’s all very well,” he said slowly. ‘We are heroes at the moment and Bolivia belongs to us if we want it. The President has asked us to join the Bolivian Air Force with any rank we care to name, but what about when the next revolution comes along? Don Jamie will lose his job, and so shall we; in fact, we should probably lose our lives as well trying to defend him, because we haven’t been brought up to understand that a President is only a very temporary officer, and that unless he grabs what he can and then hoofs it, it is only a matter of time before the crowd kicks him out. Then again, Algy, old son, you can’t go on flirting with Consuelo unless you intend marrying her. No, we had better get out while the band is playing jazz, instead of going feet first with the band playing the Dead March.’

Algy was impressed by this masterly rationalisation of reasons to leave Bolivia, when he knew Biggles’s real concerns were to avoid a certain yatiri and a fear of being laughed at if the events of the previous days became known, but he didn’t show it, and he wasn’t going to let Biggles get away with running away so easily.

 

“And do what?” Algy asked disconsolately. “Go back to England and start an air-taxi show at Heston or something like that? Not for me. I’m not aviating any hamfisted pupils through London fogs if I know it.”  
Biggles turned to the waiter who had entered and halted respectfully a little distance away. “Yes, what is it?” he asked.  
The man hurried forward and handed him a card. “Professor J.T. Smilee, F.R.H.S.,” read the pilot.

‘The lucky bugger,’ thought Algy amused. ‘No sooner does he need an excuse to leave, than one turns up. I wonder what we’ll be in for this time?’

**Author's Note:**

> W. E. John's quote taken from chapter 3, the Blue Orchid, Biggles Flies Again. Apologies for not identifying it by using bold or italics, but I couldn't work out how to do that.


End file.
